Monday, 24 September 2012

The truth is out there - Part IV


Has the X-files series ever been popular in India? I have never been a fan myself but it taught me that “the truth is out there”. There is a slight problem tough: the truth is different, depending on where you are. The philosophers have found a nice name (a –ism name, the worst) for that nebulous concept: they call it relativism. My nomadic existence exposed me to its consequences: an incredibly large array of emotions, from embarrassment to disbelief, from amusement to irritation. Let me tell you my journey.
From Hong Kong to China – Age 23

China is where relativism puts on a mischievous avatar. In the middle kingdom indeed, “yes” has several meanings: it can mean “yes”, but it can also mean “no” or even “I don’t know”. Funny, isn’t it?

We had so much fun during our trip to Mainland China, my girlfriend and I. Ahah! What a laugh really! Remember, when I asked whether we were on the right path to the river in Yangshuo? The nice woman replied with a wide toothless smile and vigorously shook her head up and down: yes, girls! The river was actually in the opposite direction and we missed our boat-ride: ahah, hysterical! And that time when we almost missed our mid-term exams because that friendly fellow at the information counter confirmed that the bus back to Hong Kong was also running the following day! Ahah, that was too much! These dear Chinese people really are hilarious jokers, aren’t they? I am still rolling on the floor laughing!

…Or not.

Not at all, in fact.

Dear Chinese friends, you may have inhibitions in confessing your ignorance. You may prefer the safety of an utter lie over the humiliation of losing face by saying no. Fear thou not; for I am with thee! And I have good news! I have discovered a superb concept: it is called relativism! Relativism is going to get you free, people: free from the stress of losing face!

You still don’t get it? Alright, let me give you an example. In France, there was this ΓΌber smart guy named Blaise Pascal. He was a mathematician (yes, it is the same Pascal as in “Pascal’s theorem”), a physician and a philosopher. And he wrote some very profound stuff, like “Truth on this side of the Pyrenees, error on the other side”. He wrote “Pyrenees”, but he could very well have written “Himalaya”. I am sure you feel better already: in the western world, you won’t be judged if you admit you don’t know the way to the post office, you won’t feel ridiculous if you confess that your restaurant is closed on Sunday. Isn’t it great? Isn’t it superb? No, don’t thank me, really…

...to be continued ....

Friday, 21 September 2012

The truth is out there - Part III

Has the X-files series ever been popular in India? I have never been a fan myself but it taught me that “the truth is out there”. There is a slight problem tough: the truth is different, depending on where you are. The philosophers have found a nice name (a –ism name, the worst) for that nebulous concept: they call it relativism. My nomadic existence exposed me to its consequences: an incredibly large array of emotions, from embarrassment to disbelief, from amusement to irritation. Let me tell you my journey.
 
From Paris to Hong Kong – Age 23
Let me tell you that one with the help of a quiz:
Q1: Botanically speaking, a tomato is a:
a)      Fruit
b)      Vegetable
c)       I don’t know
Q2: Botanically speaking, a zucchini is a:
a)      Fruit
b)      Vegetable
c)       I don’t know
Q3: Botanically speaking, a red bean is a:
a)      Fruit
b)      Legume
c)       I don’t know
Q4: Red bean is the perfect ingredient for ice creams:
a)      Yuck!
b)      Yum! Yum!
c)       I don’t like ice creams
You are correct if you have answered a) to Q1 and Q2. You are also correct if you have answered b) to Q3. If you have answered c) to Q1, 2 and 3, I believe you are a lost case.
Let us now look at the unexpected Q4: I would answer a. If you have answered c, you are missing one of the greatest culinary inventions! But if you have answered b, you are probably from Hong Kong.
Lavender and basil ice-creams are one thing. But seriously guys, red bean?????

... to be continued ...

Monday, 17 September 2012

The truth is out there - Part II

Has the X-files series ever been popular in India? I have never been a fan myself but it taught me that “the truth is out there”. There is a slight problem tough: the truth is different, depending on where you are. The philosophers have found a nice name (a –ism name, the worst) for that nebulous concept: they call it relativism. My nomadic existence exposed me to its consequences: an incredibly large array of emotions, from embarrassment to disbelief, from amusement to irritation. Let me tell you my journey.
 
From Paris to Madurai in India – Age 19
First steps in India, let’s land smoothly (we have ample time to get back into the swing of things later). When meeting somebody for the first time, basic questions are exchanged. They serve several purposes: be polite and show interest in one’s interlocutor but also pigeonhole the latter. Once aware of the answers, people automatically adjust their behavior. They abandon their initial reserve to become friendly, obnoxious or deferential. The type of questions asked reveals the fundamental values of a society.
In France, more than the questions asked, it is the unspoken or inappropriate questions that say it all. People refrain from asking questions about religion, marital status or political views, which are considered private. Money is also taboo: from one’s salary to the amount of the rent or the price of this cute little dress that fits you perfectly, darling. French people can have a 3 hour long conversation with their neighbor in a train and not ask for his name, which is not considered rude.
In India however, I experienced less restraint from people and I was asked n number of questions, each more personal and intrusive than the next from my French standards. The main concern of people was to discover whether I was married. Scroll up a little. Yes, you read well: I was 19 at that time and I believe I also looked 19 (unaesthetic pimples, rolls of fat: the works)! Who is married at 19 nowadays? 
I initially used to laugh when I was asked this question. I later understood that it is very unusual in India to let a girl travel to a land far far away if she is not chaperoned by her legal guardian: her father or her husband. I forgave my interlocutors for their genuine curiosity and obliged. But I got tired of my relativist attitude and grew intolerant with this intrusion into my personal space. I regained my French identity by ignoring the question, which somehow titillated my feminist side.
... to be continued...

Friday, 14 September 2012

The truth is out there - Part I

Has the X-files series ever been popular in India? I have never been a fan myself but it taught me that “the truth is out there”. There is a slight problem tough: the truth is different, depending on where you are. The philosophers have found a nice name (a –ism name, the worst) for that nebulous concept: they call it relativism. My nomadic existence exposed me to its consequences: an incredibly large array of emotions, from embarrassment to disbelief, from amusement to irritation. Let me tell you my journey.
 
From Arras (North of France) to Pompadour (South West of France) – Age 7
 
Food is the landmark of regional identity as well as familial traditions. In the north of France, French fries (and its famous “baraques a frites”, which could be translated by chippies or French fry van) are an example of the rich heritage that “Ch’tis” (people living in the north of France) cherish with great pride. My family is no exception to the rule: we eat French fries every Saturday for lunch. It is a mandatory culinary rendezvous of the taste buds, a celebrated calorific orgy and a weekly tribute to the god Potato.  
 
Saturday is also a great day for pupils as schools’ bells ring at 12 pm (instead of 4:30pm the rest of the week). The teachers also long for that half-day, including Madame Raynaud, my new teacher from my school in the south of France. One Saturday, she asked the entire class: “And today is the day when...?” She could hardly hide her exalted excitement, expectantly looking at us with thrilled eyes. I raised my hand as the good student I have always been and convinced that my answer will unite us in the formidable communion between two people who understand each other. “Saturday is THE day of French fries, Madame!” Her shoulders dropped, completely winded. My first encounter with relativism was painfully humiliating.
...to be continued...

Thursday, 19 July 2012

The Trojan horse

Diary of Tansen, Fatehpur Sikri, 1st March 1586

The muezzin is calling for the Maghrib prayer with his husky yet melodious voice. The magpie robin, back from its seasonal migration, is twitting enchanting lullabies at my window. My quill is shrieking on the rough parchment, playing with the dancing shadows of the candle on the paper. These sounds, these notes are pure music to my ears. But today no music can bring its usual quietude to the great Tansen as the most shocking news came to the court: the death of the Grand Vizier Birbal on 16th February of Anno Domini 1586.

Jahanpanah Akbar was profoundly affected, refused to preside at the Durbar and fasted for two long days. The circumstances of Birbal’s death are still obscure: Akbar sent Birbal to help Zain Khan protect the northwest frontiers of the empire and Birbal easily succumbed to the assault of the Afghans, caught like a rat in a trap. I was indeed surprised: Birbal, the greatest mind I have ever met, the most talented military strategist of the empire, must have been the victim of a betrayal! In the name of our friendship, I have decided to investigate. This diary will be my companion in this journey.

Diary of Tansen, Fatehpur Sikri, 2nd March 1586

Maheshdas, who became Birbal, was my companion when I had the immense privilege to entertain the divine ears of His Highness the Maharaja Ramachandra of Rewa with my humble music. Birbal left the court of His Highness in circumstances I ignored, a few months after I had joined. I remember the day he departed for the royal court of Akbar the Great, the great patron of arts: I felt ill-at-ease and avoided the Maharaja’s eyes as Birbal displayed an indecent and incomprehensible joy.

Few years later, when the reputation of my talent crossed the frontiers of the kingdom of Rewa, I had to abandon the magnanimity of my noble king to join His Imperial Majesty Akbar. I was devastated by the perspective of belonging to the royal court of the Mughal enemy. The happy prospect of reuniting with my friend Maheshdas came as a consolation. My role as courtier was however pleasant, for the personality of Akbar the Great promptly charmed me. It would have appeared that the consideration was mutual: I soon entered the council of His Majesty, known as navaratna, the nine jewels, where Birbal also belonged. I had soon forgotten my allegiance to the maharaja of Rewa, converted to Islam and strengthened my bonds with Jahanpanah Akbar by marrying His daughter, the noble Meherunnissa.

As for Birbal, his wit, incommensurable wisdom and knowledge rapidly conquered His Majesty. He had created an irreplaceable role for himself as the most trusted minister of Akbar. His Majesty relied on him so much than even His servant Ajam had been warmly recommended by Birbal.
 

Diary of Tansen, Fatehpur Sikri, 3rd March 1586

I initiated my investigation by questioning the seven other jewels of Akbar’s council. At some point, all of them had envied the position of Birbal and endeavoured to conceal their jealousy. They nevertheless would never have risked the favours of Jahanpanah Akbar to plot the assassination of Birbal. But the court was teeming with a plethora of enemies. Among them, Zain Khan appeared as the ideal suspect: he had a motive, a golden opportunity to commit his crime and designed culprits as the Afghans. I however had no evidence to confound Khan. I thus decided to interrogate the surviving soldiers of the attack who had returned to Sikri. “In the name of Raja Birbal, I urge you, valiant warriors, to prudently answer my questions. Carefully describe the attack!” Although they were bound to some level of professional discretion, they expressed their pain and anger in unison.

“It was the darkest and coldest night of the year, Miyan Tansen! The wind aggravated the natural humidity of Lund Khwar. These circumstances would have deterred any sensible warrior but the determination of Birbal was inflexible. We progressed for several hours in the plains, hindered by our heavy weapons and thick jamas. The exhilarating three-beat gait of our galloping mounts faded into a palpable tension as we slowed down upon reaching Katlang. We were ascending the mountains step by step, blinded by the steam fuming from the nostrils of our horses. We startled as they sporadically snickered and whinnied in the silence. Suddenly, the most terrifying scream made our blood run cold. A hail of arrows and stones paralyzed us. We immediately tried to manoeuvre back but we failed as the narrowness of the passage and our confusion contributed to the chaos. The only possibility was to affront the intrepid Pashtun tribes. Birbal quickly understood it and ordered us to attack. He lead us, fiercely spurring his nervous and determined mount, and brandishing his tawar. A reckless Yusufzai, who had been hidden in the rocks, jumped on Birbal’s horse. With a disconcerting determination, he plunged his hand into Birbal’s boot, where his deadly katar was hidden. Birbal did not get the chance to react: the Pashtun warrior ruthlessly pierced him with Raja’s favourite weapon.”

“Why did Birbal decide to attack in the night in the worst conditions?” I shared the warriors’ incomprehension. “We heard him violently quarrel with Zain Khan the previous day. Zain refused to manoeuvre in the mountains. Birbal saw in Khan’s reluctance an opportunity to put Khan in a perilous situation with Akbar.” I decided to follow my intuition: “What was Birbal wearing?”“Miyan Tansen, he was wearing a silk yellow jama and a turban with a flamboyant peacock plume. Our turbans had a simple cock feather.”

Oh dear Birbal, why did you fail to foresee Khan’s ambush? Didn’t you realize that an opportunist Khan was well aware that you would always contradict him? I am now convinced that the Pashtun killer knew exactly what he was doing, who Birbal was from his distinctive attire and how to kill him, thanks to a providential and evil-minded informant. My doubts against Khan are now stronger than ever.


Diary of Tansen, Fatehpur Sikri, 4th March 1586

The reaction of Jahanpanah Akbar left me perplexed when I confided my doubts to His Majesty. He firmly ordered that I put an end to my investigation at once to allow the soul of Birbal to rest in peace. I was nonetheless unable to dry up the flow of questions erupting in my mind. Why would Jahanpanah Akbar refuse to avenge His favourite minister? Could His Majesty be protecting Khan? I also failed to understand why Akbar did not scatter the ashes of Birbal in Ganga River, preferring to immerse them in a well next to the river. This jigsaw puzzle was more intricate than ever.

I was restlessly pondering on the riddle, reluctant to admit my impotence. Someone could have helped me. I decided to tempt my fortune and penetrated into the dark labyrinth of alleys of the town where I promptly found Ajam. Interrogating Ajam was as difficult as making the sun rise from the west and for good reason: Ajam was mute, which made him the most discreet servant of His Majesty. Ajam obviously understood my questions, but I was incapable of interpreting his answers that seemed like agitated and ample gestures. I was deeply disappointed and about to abandon. I started humming this beautiful and powerful ballad that had always instantaneously put my senses at rest. Ajam was carefully listening, transfigured. As I sang the last note, my eyes closed to appreciate the quietude, Ajam jumped on his feet and exclaimed: “Miyan Tansen, your voice is divine!”. “Ajam, can you speak?” I frowned. The poor devil bit his lips and lay at my feet, looking miserable. “Miyan Tansen, I implore you, do not denounce me. It is all because of Raja Birbal!” “Ease your conscience at once!” I ordered.

What he revealed stupefied me: Ajam was Birbal’s faithful spy and dutifully reported him the merest movement and word of His Majesty! I was discovering Birbal’s true colours: his personality was not as luminous as it initially appeared to me. “Why, Ajam? Why did Raja Birbal order you to spy on His Majesty? And do you know what happened to your master?” “Miyan Tansen, my duty was only to report His majesty’s slightest actions. I am in total ignorance of Birbal’s great intents. His loss is terrible and I would dearly want to know who killed my master.” “Do you remember anything incongruous about Akbar’s behaviour that you did not have the time to report to Birbal?” “No, Miyan Tansen. His Majesty just pronounced few obscure words to a mysterious messenger the day before Raja Birbal was sent to the northwest frontiers: “God bless that imbecile guard! And remember I want the ring, that accursed Trojan horse!””

Immediately those words triggered some vague memories. Ring? Trojan horse? Why did this association sound so familiar? When and where did I hear them? These questions need to be answered. I am also eager to discover who the imbecile guard is!


Diary of Tansen, Fatehpur Sikri, 5th March 1586

Today I decided to present my condolences to Birbal’s son. His visage was inscrutable but his attitude was full of dignity. I believed it helped him to evoke his late father, so he accepted to satisfy my curiosity and recounted the circumstances of Birbal’s arrival at Akbar’s court.

“What? Miyan Tansen? I concede that you arrived at the court much later, but are you really unaware of the story? Let me tell you the words I have heard from my dear father about a thousand times. Birbal was a young boy when he first met Akbar as the king was hunting. Since his childhood, Birbal’s demonstration of wit had always bordered on impertinence. This enchanted Akbar as His Majesty was questioning Birbal. Akbar gave him His ring as recompense for his witty answer. The ring would help Akbar recognize Birbal when the later would be ready to join the former’s court.”

The ring!! A Trojan horse! Would Birbal have used this ring as a mean to enter the court and deceive His Majesty? Would the faithful courtier have hidden a reckless enemy? But what were his motives?

“Miyan Tansen, let me tell you the most amusing part of the story! When Birbal arrived at the palace wearing simple attire, the guard refused to grant him the access to the palace. Birbal then produced the ring earlier given by His Majesty. The guard was highly impressed as he recognized His Majesty’s seal but grabbed the opportunity to bribe Birbal: “My boy, I will help you. The price of my favour is ridiculous considering your current fortune: I want half of what the king gives you.” Birbal accepted immediately. When Akbar recognized the ring, he asked Birbal how he could fulfil his desires. “Huzoor, I would be delighted if Your Majesty could punish me with one hundred whip lashes.” Akbar frowned from perplexity but laughed heartily when Birbal recounted the incident and asked him to share his punishment with the corrupted guard.”

How could have I ignored such an interested story? Was Akbar referring to the same imbecile guard as Ajam mentioned? “My son, do you recall the name of the guard?” “I believe it was Sahl or Sehl.” “May the soul of your father rest in peace! And if you happen to have the ring, please choose the safest place to hide it.” I was convinced that the ring was an indispensable piece of the puzzle.

Diary of Tansen, Fatehpur Sikri, 10th March 1586

After five days of a relentlessly hunt, I have finally tracked down Sahl, the corrupted guard, in the deepest parts of the city. Akbar threw him out of the palace after the incident with Birbal. Sahl never recovered from the bitter humiliation he faced the day of Birbal’s arrival in Fatehpur Sikri. His stinging memories had been fuelling his resentment and he was delighted to hear about Birbal’s death.

“Miyan Tansen! It is one of the happiest days of my life! The scoundrel who ruined my existence is no more! I was well advised to send to His Majesty the missive I found!” His provocation was intolerable. But I was eager to know more! “What is this nonsense, Sahl? What missive?” “Oh, Miyan Tansen, don’t despise me. Your attitude will change at once! I had always been seeking revenge against Birbal and I had been spying on him since his arrival in Sikri, waiting for the perfect occasion. I soon discovered he was regularly receiving some letters by carrier pigeon, a beautiful bird with an iridescent plumage. Every time, he would withdraw into his residence to exit few days later looking as bright as the sun. This game piqued my curiosity: for several years I failed to intercept the bird. But the birth of my first grandson brought me luck, God bless him!  As soon as I saw the bird, I carefully chose the sharpest stone and adjusted my catapult! I swear to Allah, I never had the smallest drop of alcohol. But that day was special! The toxic potion performed a miracle: The pigeon dropped dead, few meters away from me. I rushed up to the bird and carefully untied the letter from its foot. My neighbour, a wise man, deciphered the message. I don’t remember the substance, but I could smell a rat: a big fat rat which might eat the smug Birbal alive if it were to reach His Majesty. You understand, Miyan Tansen! It was my duty to send it to the palace. Few days later, Birbal was sent to the front to never return!"

A wave of melancholy overwhelmed him: there was no denying that Birbal had tried to cheat His Majesty. And Akbar seemed to have discovered the traitor, whom He sent to the northwest frontiers. Birbal’s motives were the only missing piece of this intricate jigsaw puzzle.
Diary of Tansen, Fatehpur Sikri, 11th March 1586

I am so grateful! My investigation is coming to an end. Last night brought me one missing piece of the puzzle. The past few days had left me disoriented: a strong ague contributed to aggravate my delirious state as I was falling asleep. My dream transported me some years ago in the palace of the Maharaja of Rewa. It was one of the hottest days of the summer and I was wandering in the garden looking for some fresh air. I froze and hid behind a tree as I heard some voices. I recognized the high-pitched voice of His Highness enthusiastically saying “Maheshdas! This is our solution! This ring would be our Trojan horse!” The exact same words pronounced by Akbar!!! I now recall that I heard this mysterious phrase only few days before Birbal left Rewa to join Akbar. This sentence now makes complete sense in the light of these fateful events! His Highness, my estimated king, was also conspiring against Akbar.

I needed to know the content of the letter intercepted by Sahl. If, like he pretended, Birbal was regularly receiving and sending some correspondences through his pigeon, these letters might still exist. I decided to visit Birbal’s son one last time. “My dear son, please think carefully. Was your father the recipient of some missives sent by some carrier pigeons?” “Yes, Miyan Tansen, he isolated himself in his office for several hours upon receiving them and forbade anyone to enter.”

Birbal’s brave son obligingly granted me the access of his father’s office. A strong feeling of guilt assailed me as I was violating Birbal’s intimacy. But my curiosity was irresistible. The office was a typical interior with very few pieces of furniture. Only a large cabinet with occidental design drew my attention. I had seen these kinds of cabinets in Rewa. The servants were always pretending that they were magical and would swallow anything. My Cartesian brain was however suspecting a trick from the carpenter. I studied it for long minutes, opened the drawers, closed them, reopened them; but the cabinet was not ready to give up its secret. As I was closing the bottom drawer for the tenth time, I heard a distinctive clicking noise. I removed the drawer and found the key to open the secret compartment! A graph would better explain this ingenious mechanism. 



My heart was beating fast from exhilaration. The secret compartment revealed an abundant epistolary correspondence between the Maharaja of Rewa and Birbal: the ultimate proof of Birbal’s betrayal!

Diary of Tansen, Fatehpur Sikri, 12th March 1586

I have spent the entire night reading all the letters. Birbal’s vows of allegiance to the Maharaja of Rewa had always remained intact. His alleged loyalty to Jahanpanah Akbar was a clever cover to perpetrate his crime. Birbal preyed upon Akbar’s illiteracy and magnanimity to establish his potent influence with the ultimate goal of leading Akbar to His ruin and allow the Maharaja of Rewa and the other Hindu rulers to regain their majesty. The plan had been carefully prepared by the two. No wonder why Birbal was so joyful when he left Rewa: he was about to embrace his deadly mission.

Akbar must have been furious upon reading the letter: the person He cherished the most, whose intellectual superiority He admired, was a ruthless rival! How could the visionary Akbar the Great have been cheated by such a conceited character? Only the death of Birbal could quench His thirst for revenge. Jahanpanah Akbar could have publically chastised the criminal and set an example, but that would have revealed His incredible gullibility. Discretion was what His Majesty wanted. The war in Northwest offered Him a golden opportunity. He sent Birbal on a false pretext and intimated Zain Khan to eliminate Birbal.  Khan cheerfully obliged by plotting the ambush. The two mourning days were absolutely not the expression of His deep affection but the result of His bitterness against His former friend and His frustration not to have the ring.

I understand, yet deplore, that His Majesty refused to immerse the ashes of Birbal in the holy river Ganga. The Great Akbar could not have borne what He called His water of immortality to be polluted by some criminals. I sometimes regret my curiosity. The truth I discovered had casted a crude light over the betrayal and the cruelty of three persons I cherished. My beloved son, if you happen to find this diary one day, you shall pass on this missive to your lineage for the sake of the verity. But it shall always remain secret. The ugly truth should not conceal the utmost wisdom of Birbal’s teaching and the world shall enjoy the beautiful and bright legend of the fruitful friendship between Birbal and Akbar.

Friday, 13 July 2012

Light my fire!


Tomorrow is French national day. 14th of July: an eventful day for French people.

History

That day is referred to as Bastille Day in English, which is inaccurate. Indeed, we celebrate, not one, but two events on that day:

- 14th July 1789: the Bastille prison is destroyed, one of the most famous events of the French revolution. It symbolizes the abolition of the privileges and the end of absolutism.
- 14th July 1790: the nation celebrates the first anniversary of the destruction of Bastille prison during the festival of federation. It becomes the festival of the nation, which unites all French people.


14th of July officially became the French national day in 1880. It has been enthusiastically celebrated since then and is brightened up by a plethora of symbols.

Military parade

All the army corps parade down the most beautiful avenue of the world: the Champs Elysees in Paris. The march of French military forces, precise to a fraction of an inch, is an impressive ballet of soldiers, police forces, military students, horses, tanks and military cars, professional firemen, chasseurs alpins (the elite mountain infantery), etc.



All these corps march at a different pace, which becomes a nightmare to synchronize. Since perfection is a must, rehearsals are organized at dawn while Parisians are still asleep. The most remarkable show is offered by the Foreign Legion: these manly soldiers, usually displaying their long barb, parade at a slow pace, united by a strong and mysterious esprit de corps. Their motto says it all: Legio Patria Nostra.



The Patrouille de France ends the parade in a superb precision aerobatic demonstration of the French Air Force. It is the world's oldest team of its kind.



Every year, a country is being honored. India was part of the parade in 2009.



My favorite moment of last year’s parade (that I duly watched on TV5, the francophone channel) was the haka performed by some troops of overseas French territories. It was so powerful that the tension was palpable in the presidential stand.



Firemen ball and fireworks

Friendly balls are organized across the country to celebrate the holiday. It is usually hosted by firemen: our sexy and muscular saviors over whom every romantic schoolgirl at heart drools, especially since their legendary calendars have become more revealing (for reasons that escape me, it is more lucrative). Here is a traditional version of the calendar. Decency (and a prudish corporate internet firewall) forbids me to post an example of the modern version.




As a teaser for a coming post about relativism, let me tell you the surprise of my husband when I explained that firemen were considered attractive in France (and in the US, I believe). I thought I made my point with a killing argument: it is all about the uniform! Then I discovered the uniform of Mumbai firemen.



A sparkling firework usually concludes this festive day in every town of the country. True, it does not hold the comparison with Marine Drives during Diwali, but it is still very enjoyable (and less risky).

Reception by the consul

Do I have any plan for tomorrow? Yes! I am being invited by the Consul of France in Mumbai for a reception. It is a great occasion to network with the French community and savor French delicacies. And thanks to Ferrero Rocher, the receptions of the Ambassador (or Consul for that matter) are always a great success!



Monday, 9 July 2012

The inconstant gardener




“Mrs. James, Mrs. James, please!”

How long has the judge been calling my name? Actually, it is my husband’s name. I am already subconsciously divorced and refuse to hear anyone calling me by that name.

“Yes, Your Honour?”
“I can see that your attorney is not present. Your counsel Ms. Martin has sent me a letter which leaves me quite puzzled and you will understand why. Please listen.”

Dear Judge Barnard,

I refuse to represent Mrs. James. I apologize for the inconvenience caused to my former client but some exceptional circumstances have forced me to abandon her divorce case.

Yours sincerely,
Ms. Martin

That bitch!!! She did not even have the decency to inform me! I feel almost worse than when my husband told me that he had a mistress and was leaving me for that geisha. The judge takes control of the situation as I stand stupidly staring at him, with mouth agape and bulging eyes: “Mrs. James, Mr. James. In these conditions, we will have to interrupt the audience. The hearing is adjourned.”

As I exit the tribunal, I meet the eyes of my hopefully soon to be ex-husband. He is looking at me with pity. Am I dreaming or do I also catch a glimpse of guilt? I shake my head violently: now is not the time to dither. What I need at this moment is a very strong and ruffling coffee. A coffee and my best friend, Isa.

OK, Isa is not my best friend, per se. She is hardly even a friend. Actually, she annoys me most of the time with her clueless smile and that irritating foible of always agreeing with me in a theatrical manner. Argh!! But today is a case of force majeure. Sometimes, one needs these kind of people to pour out their frustration and anger: they listen quietly and vigorously nod at the appropriate time, they don’t lecture and condescendingly pretend that “it is for your own good, honey!”.

I sit at a terrace, order a stiff double espresso and wait for Isa while nervously scratching my nail paint. After few minutes, I spot her from a distance. Even the blindest bat would have been thrown off by her tacky orange hairy coat and her outrageously swaying hips. “Jen”, I order myself, “Stop criticizing the poor blonde. One, it is not her fault; two, she is about to save you 300 dollars of therapy.”

“Hi Isa!” I hug her tightly, partly to compensate my toxic thoughts (never know: God might exist!).
“Jen, I rushed up as soon as I got your call. It is horrible!! I don’t know what to say!”
I bit my lit before I can retort: “So don’t say anything, you dumbass, just shut your gigantic botoxed mouth!”
“That’s so nice of you, Isa. It feels good to know that someone still cares about me”, I press her hand with gratitude.
“Tell me everything!”, she crosses her legs in a burlesque attempt to be sensual, lays her DD cup size asset on the table and expectantly looks at me while slurping her carrot juice, her lips comically pouted around the straw.
“Oh, Isa! I am devastated!” I soon forget I am confiding to my favourite idiot as I pour my heart out. When I reveal the dramatic end of the hearing, she gasps loudly. “Oh, Jen! First Fred, now your lawyer! Everyone is abandoning you!!”
Sometimes, hearing the truth is more painful than experiencing it, especially when it is exposed by Isa with a genuine concern.

“What should I do?” I moan, not really expecting Isa to reply. She nonetheless ponders on my question and frowns seriously. After few minutes of intense reflexion, she enthusiastically exclaims: “You should be your own lawyer and spy on your husband! You are so smart, Jen. You should be able to sort things out!”
I stare at her dumbfounded and incredulously observe her empty glass. Has the waiter added some kind of magical intelligence philtre to her juice? Why on earth has that brilliant idea not stroked me before? Is my intelligence also failing me? I mumble some vague protests and rise from my chair as I hang my bag on my shoulder.
“Thanks a lot, Isa. It was really great talking to you. Sorry, I have to dash off. Just remembered some urgent work in office! Ciao!” I don’t allow her to reply and leave without looking back.

Driving back home, I am exhilaratingly cursing an imaginary Fred: “You little bastard! You ruined my life. You wasted my best years. You thought you could blithely trample on our marriage vows? You imagined I would ingenuously let you destroy me? Ha! Watch out! I may not have a lawyer anymore, but I am pumped up and ready to crush you. Just need to find the evidence of your pathetic animal behaviour and get that divorce pronounced!!!!!”

When I reach home, I feel deflated. I crash heavily on the sofa and ruminate. Where should I start? I sit at the computer, open my mailbox and violently hit my head! Of course!! I just need to check my husband mailbox. With a little bit of chance, the bastard has not changed his password. God, what is it already? Something to do with sport, or with travel? No, no, I remember, it is something to do with his favourite pick up line: he claimed to be like Casanova in college. Casanova! I hardly suppress a hallow laugh: I should have known!
Pick up line, pick up line, beauty, eternity…. Ahhhh, a big thank to my elephantine memory: “If beauty were time, you'd be an eternity”. How can any girl fall for that? It is so cheesy I want to puke. I enter the first letters of each word: “IBWTYBAE”. Bingo! Ah Casanova, only if your brain cells were as prompt as your womanizing impulses! Too bad for you, good for me!

I start exploring. I feel guilty and I jump twice at some sudden noises, quickly shut down the laptop and look behind me. But it is just Max, my cat, playing with the curtains. Not easy to be a spy! How can these people shamelessly stare at others’ life through the keyhole?
In the pool of spams, the emails of my rival, the girl (sorry, at this stage, I cannot say woman, she is just a girl) whom he is staying with. I read few of them, but soon get nauseous: the correspondence is riddled with mushy dialogues and tasteless allusions. Ah Fred, elegance has never been your strong point, but this is a festival of tawdriness! I scroll down and an email attracts my attention: the name looks familiar. Where have I seen it before? I open the email and sit up on my chair while the message loads.

“All is under control. Meet you at the court. xoxoxo”

What the??? What is going on? I jump out of the chair, crush my laptop against the floor and start punching the sofa cushions violently. I grab the phone: I am shaking as I dial my husband’s number. The ringing tone is unbearable. Max bolts as a huge roar blasts from my throat.
“Hello? Hello?”
“How do you know her?” My voice was just a raucous thunder.
“Sorry, who is this?” My husband’s voice was hesitant and shaky. “Jen, is that you?”
“You bet it is me! Now, Don Juan, you listen to me carefully.” I never knew I could be so assertive. “You are going to tell me the truth. The real truth, you hear me? What have you two scoundrels been cooking up behind my back?” What that my imagination or I could hear a hiccough?
“What are you talking about, Bunny?”
“Don’t bunny me! What are all the emails about? Why is she signing them by a cascade of XO? Don’t foul me, I am in no mood. Is that clear enough?”
An eloquent silence follows. And then finally: “OK, Bunny. I have not been fair to you. You are right, you deserve the truth” This unusual poise voice betrays an unexpected level of maturity from Casanova.

*****

Three days have passed. Three days of emotional roller coaster. My delicate complexion probably went through all the colours of the rainbow. The first day, I felt humiliated and betrayed (yet another time). On the constant verge of crying, the lump in my throat was preventing me for swallowing the tiniest crumb. The second day, I blamed my naivety and cursed my lack of suspicion. Nothing I could gulp down was filling the emptiness my stomach experienced. After two sleepless nights, I was exhausted. I decided to wash away my worries in the bath tub. This is when I started laughing hysterically. After all, this story has an incommensurable comical potential: the biter’s bit, a classic!!
*****

Once upon a time, there was a man named Casanova. In spite of being married to a lovely princess named Jen whose horticultural skills were legendary, he always needed to assess the colour of the grass of other princesses’ garden. He was collecting disappointment and enchantment phases, gardens devastated by drought or lovely blossoming spring orchards; but his curiosity was insatiable.  When princess Jen discovered sub rosa Casanova’s passion for gardening, her love for her husband withered. Should she be clutching at the straws of their love? She was confused.
She got the solution from a garden sorceress, Ms Martin, expert in inopportune gathering of nectar from perverted bumblebees. Ms Martin was positive: the only treatment against a worm-eaten marriage was to prune the sickened shoots and get a quick divorce. Jen was so impressed by Ms Martin’s legal knowledge that she did not even consider the milder options: treating the infested part (although the therapy was long and the success not guaranteed) or getting a good price in the form of a separation alimony (after all, Casanova may still have some value in the market). Ms Martin volunteered to act as the executioner: she predicted a quick but efficient legal separation. Princess Jen waited anxiously for the fatidic pruning day, only to realize that the witch did not turn up.
It appeared that Ms Martin was in reality jealous of princess Jen’s lawn and furiously wanted to obtain what Casanova had promised her: the exclusive maintenance of her own garden, for Ms Martin’s bewitching English garden had also been overrun by Casanova’s weed. But few days before the pruning day, princess Jen revealed to Ms Martin that Casanova was already planting his seeds in the fashionable and exotic Japanese garden of a fresh bimbo and their love was blossoming.
In shock, Ms Martin disappeared, prostrated by her guilt, her shame and her disenchantment. She gave up on her own garden, which is now a brushy and overgrown romantic desert. As for princess Jen, she suffered but overcame her difficulties and nurtured her property. She got her revenge from the witch Martin and she knew that Casanova would just remain an unsatisfied gardenaholic.

*****